


Most Dangerous Game

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Dean, Demon Dean, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: Castiel bares his teeth, and directs a glare in the demon’s direction. “Go to hell.”“Already been, sweetheart.” The hand remains firm in Castiel’s hair as Dean circles around him, and he gets only a quick look at summer-green eyes before black floods across them. “But thanks for the invite.”





	Most Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing instead of working on the next chapter of For Every Hunter like I need to be doing? Filling prompt requests on tumblr! Yay! (Which - I love taking prompts, lowkey, you can find me [here](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/) if you feel like humoring me and giving me things to write.) 
> 
> This fic is also being posted on my tumblr, an answer to a lovely, lovely anon, who requested the quote: “Go to hell.” “Already been but thanks for the invite.”
> 
> (Huge thanks to [Emma](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo) for helping me get this finished and being the motivator I needed to get this post here, as well as tumblr. You're the best, dude. Have I said that enough? Probably not.)
> 
> Enjoy. <3

He got jumped. He doesn’t for the life of him know _how_ , but he did, and now Castiel is tied to a steel chair in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. No one around to hear him if he calls for help. No one to come looking for him, thanks to the fact that he intentionally lied to his brother about going off on this hunt at all. Gabriel thinks he’s tracking a rougarou in Louisiana, not following a new lead on the hunt he’s sworn several times over to give up.

From somewhere in the dilapidated rafters above him, a drop of (what he hopes to be) water falls and lands squarely on Castiel’s cheek. His lip curls in disgust, and he does his best to wipe it off on his mostly-immobile shoulder.

He should have actually gone to Louisiana.

It feels like an eternity passes before, far off in the building, there’s the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing.

Castiel draws himself up as much as he can, chin held high in anticipation of meeting his captor. He’s under no disillusions with his situation—he’s going to die here, he knows that—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to face it like a coward.

His captor’s boots fall heavily on the cracked concrete floor with every step, the sound steadily growing louder as the distance between them lessens. Eventually, Castiel feels the figure stop behind him, close enough for the hunter to feel warmth through the back of his flannel shirt, to feel breath ghosting over his hair.

“Well, well, look who’s awake!” He flicks the back of Castiel’s head, drawing a pained hiss from the hunter when the contact exacerbates the sore point undoubtedly left from when he was knocked out. The figure behind him chuckles in answer. “Ooh, sorry, sweetheart. Guess I got you pretty good, didn’t I?”

Castiel grits his teeth, but says nothing in return. It’s only when the same hand that flicked him starts to card through his hair that he jerks and spits out, “ _Don’t fucking touch me_.”

Of course, he only gets a hum of amusement for his efforts, and then the hand is back in his hair, sliding along his scalp and then pulling without warning, yanking until Castiel’s skin tingles and tears prick at his eyes.

Hot breath washes over his ears, reeking so strongly of sulfur that Castiel nearly gags. “You’re lucky I like ‘em feisty.”

Castiel bares his teeth, and directs a glare in the demon’s direction. “Go to hell.”

“Already been, sweetheart.” The hand remains firm in Castiel’s hair as Dean circles around him, and he gets only a quick look at summer-green eyes before black floods across them. “But thanks for the invite.”

Castiel stares at him in silence, refusing to flinch. Unfortunately, that just seems to be what the demon wanted, because he flashes the hunter a dazzling grin.

“You really do that tall, dark, and silent thing well, do you know? I’m guessing you must have ladies all over you, huh, handsome. You’d make a hell of a meat suit…”

Dean draws a knife from the band of his jeans and teases the serrated edge over Castiel’s jaw. Even without looking directly at it, the hunter recognizes the weapon as the demon-killing knife Dean stole from him during their last encounter, several months prior. He wonders what it means for an actual demon to be carrying such a weapon, wonders if Dean recognizes the irony of it.

More importantly, he wonders what it means for Dean to be carrying around _his_ knife. It’s been months; has Dean had it on his person that entire time?

“Except, of course,” Dean goes on to say, tapping the flat side of the knife against Castiel’s cheek, “my skin is my own, and I’d like to keep it that way. And I have something much better for you in mind.”

Castiel stomach twists with fear. _Better_ can’t mean anything good, coming from a Knight of Hell.

Without warning, Dean plops himself down on Castiel’s lap, straddling both the hunter and the chair he’s bound to. What little distance there is left between their torsos in the position, Dean quickly closes, pressing himself fully against Castiel. His breath catches, his throat constricting. He resists the urge to look up to meet Dean’s black eyes, but the demon’s knife soon makes itself known again, digging into the underside of Castiel’s chin until he’s forced to lift his head. His neck is left uncomfortably exposed as a result, Dean’s for the taking.

Dean grins, likely sensing the fear that wafts from Castiel’s skin. “What’s the matter, angel-face?” he coos. He leans in until their noses nearly brush, the hand still in the hunter’s hair now ensuring he can’t turn his head or look away. “Do you not like me anymore?”

Castiel’s brow twitches, nearly pulling together in a frown before he manages to regain control of himself.

Dean, unsurprisingly, didn’t miss the show of Castiel’s confusion. The demon hums in amusement, and his expression turns suggestive. “That’s why you track me so relentlessly, isn’t it, sweetheart? There’s a reason you’re so obsessed with me, and it ain’t exactly subtle.”

No matter how much he wishes he could, Castiel is helpless to stop the blush that colors his cheeks. He knows what Dean is suggesting. “I don’t—”

“Come on, angel, don’t play games.” Dean shifts on Castiel’s lap, rolling his hips against the hunter’s in a slow, dirty grind. Castiel makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and squeezes his eyes closed, the friction having sent something far different from fear sparking through him.

Dean hums again, clearly satisfied with the reaction. The demon’s hands leave Castiel for a second, and when they return, the hunter can feel the bone handle of his knife now held between Dean’s fingers against the back of his head, while Dean’s other hand is now free to curl around Castiel’s jaw.

“Open your eyes, handsome,” Dean says. His tone leaves enough of an implied, _Or I’ll do it for you_ , that Castiel does as he’s told. The demon’s eyes, surprisingly, have returned to their natural green. He beams once Castiel meets his gaze. “There we go. Now let me tell you how this is going to go, alright? Either you’re going to sit here while I ride your cock into the sunset, or I’ll leave you tied up here where no one knows about you, and go off to hunt down everyone you’ve ever known.”

The latter half of the demon’s ultimatum is supposed to be threatening, Castiel recognizes, designed to hit him in the hardest way imaginable, but despite that, he’s too hung up on the first half to take much note. Dean wants to… But that…

The hunter’s breath starts to come faster. He’s thought about it, he’s capable of admitting that. Dean, while monstrous and infuriating, is really rather stunning on the surface, and in the two years they’ve spent playing cat and mouse, the demon has been more than flirtatious enough to have the thought settling into Castiel’s subconscious. He’s dreamed about him on more occasion than one, thought about him while looking at others, and while he ensures that all of those instances end in a cold shower, the thought of relieving some of his frustration with his greatest foe is one that always finds its way back to him.

Maybe if he can satisfy the part of his subconscious that wants this, the urge will fade, and he’ll be able to get on with his life. No more cold showers. If he’s really lucky, maybe no more hunting Dean to the ends of the earth, either.

Perhaps Dean isn’t wrong in calling it an obsession.

Dean’s eyes flicker down to Castiel’s lips and then back again. “So, what’s it going to be, angel?”

It only takes an instant for Castiel to decide. When their mouths connect fully, Dean tastes like ash and sulfur, and whiskey and cinnamon.

Dean practically purrs against his lips. The kiss acts as permission, and once Dean has that, he doesn’t hold back. His hands fly to Castiel’s belt while his tongue asserts itself in the hunter’s mouth, seemingly trying to taste every inch of him. Castiel quickly loses himself in the war that the kiss becomes, their tongues battling for dominance, if such a thing can even be claimed. It isn’t until Dean rises partway off of his lap and yanks Castiel’s jeans and boxers down to his knees, pulling the materials out from between Castiel’s thighs and the chair beneath with inhuman ease, that the hunter realizes just how diverted he allowed his attention to become.

And that’s nothing short of stupid. Not paying attention is how he’s going to end up dead in this chair, regardless of his captor’s alternate agendas. That knife is still in Dean’s hand, after all, held behind Castiel’s head but no less dangerous for it.

Dean has to move back even farther to shimmy out of his own pants—just dark-wash jeans, no underwear beneath them. Castiel twists his wrists in their rope bindings, eyes falling to Dean’s cock. It juts out proudly from a thatch of meticulously-trimmed pubic hair—and isn’t that a weird habit for a demon to have, Castiel doesn’t put nearly as much effort into personal care as Dean clearly does—and curves up toward his stomach with an impressive length. If Castiel’s own cock wasn’t already rapidly hardening with the thought of Dean ‘riding him into the sunset’, the reverse might have also been interesting.

Except— _no_. This is happening once, because he’s a captive, because he has no choice, because he has an unhealthy obsession with the most beautiful demon Hell has to offer and he needs that to _end_.

There will be no reverse.

With that thought firmly in his mind, Castiel finally wrenches his eyes up and away from Dean’s groin, only to find the demon’s eyes already on his own. He looks entirely too pleased with the hunter’s brief lapse into captivation, and as if he’s reading Castiel’s mind, he says as he saunters back to Castiel’s lap, “Maybe next time, sweetheart.”

There’s a sharp retort on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, but before he can speak it, Dean is swinging back over his lap and lining himself up over the head of Castiel’s cock. He starts to lower himself without hesitation or preamble, which alarms Castiel into jerking forward, pulling at his restraints. “Dean, what— _oh, Jesus_.”

Dean, evidently, has already prepped himself. The head of Castiel’s cock slides into him with ease, past a loosened ring of muscle slicked with an obscene amount of lube. Despite that, though, Dean is tight around him, and so hot that Castiel feels like he could melt. The demon’s lips are parted, and his green eyes are hazy with pleasure.

As Castiel watches, Dean’s lips stretch into a smile. “Oh, _fuck yes_.”

“You— _shit_.” Dean drops the rest of the way onto him before he can finish his sentence, momentarily rendering him speechless. Castiel’s head falls back with a moan, and it takes him far too long to manage to find his tongue again. “You prepared for this, I see?”

It’s too odd of a concept for him not to question it. It’s one thing for Dean to be attracted to him, or for that attraction to turn out to be mutual, but _this_? This shows planning. Intent. Dean knew he would be getting this when he let Castiel find him, when he tied the hunter to this chair and waved his knife at him.

Castiel doesn’t get an immediate answer, which isn’t a surprise. The way the lines of Dean’s throat go taut when his face tips up toward the ceiling is utterly entrancing, the look of pure rapture on the demon’s face even more so. He sits in place on Castiel’s cock for only a moment before the look passes, much to the hunter’s dismay, and then he’s flexing his hips and, a moment after that, rising up on the balls of his feet to then drop back down.

The sound that is torn from Castiel’s chest is hardly human.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean groans. He repeats his previous movement, then again, steadily fucking himself on Castiel’s length. The rhythm that he sets makes the man’s head spin, so much so that he nearly misses it when the demon starts to speak again. It takes all of his concentration to make sense of the words.

“Wanted this for so damn long, angel-face, you’ve got no idea. Knew you’d come here if you thought you’d find me. So damn stubborn.” Dean rolls his hips in another deep grind, which has them moaning in stereo. Castiel’s hips buck upwards, but with his hands tied behind his back and his ankles bound to the legs of the chair, there’s only so much he can do. It gets Dean’s attention, though, and the demon’s eyes flick to black while his lips part in a silent moan.

Castiel nearly loses his train of thought again in the time it takes Dean to continue, the demon fucking himself relentlessly all the while. “So damn stubborn,” he repeats, breathless, “and so fucking hot. I know Heaven’s got their eye on you, but those winged dicks can’t have you, you hear me?”

Castiel nods, although he can’t really say he knows what he’s agreeing to. What Dean is talking about is far beyond his range of understanding, and speaks of a level of attention on the demon’s behalf that Castiel cannot even begin to comprehend. To know about Heaven, to insist on keeping the hunter for himself—

Dean’s rhythm starts to stutter, his legs no longer lifting himself as easily as they had been as he clearly nears his peak. The demon drops a hand to his cock and begins stroking himself in time with his movements. Castiel wants to watch, but as soon as he tips his head to do just that, Dean tugs at the back of his hair, forcing him to keep his eyes on the demon’s face.

“I want to see you, Cas,” Dean explains, smiling again, just briefly. His hips momentarily speed up, and he clenches down around Castiel inside of him. “Waited so damn long for this, baby, you really think I’m going to miss the chance to watch you come apart? Fat chance.”

Castiel’s breath catches. There’s heat at the base of his spine, too much pleasure burning through him, and every movement Dean makes only heightens it. He’s _so close_. “Dean, I—”

Dean shakes his head, black eyes glittering in the dim lighting of the warehouse. He pointedly swivels his hips, every muscle in his body going tight. “Come on, baby, just— _fuck_ —come for me. Let me feel you.”

Castiel is powerless to resist.

The hunter comes with a cry of Dean’s name, his hips jerking up as much as his position allows while his cock empties deep inside of the demon above him. Dean rocks his hips through it, and after a few jerks of his cock, moans and comes across Castiel’s shirt.

Bliss seeps through Castiel’s veins, and his heartbeat thunders in his ears. He practically melts into the steel chair he’s bound to, while Dean sags toward his chest. The hunter lets his eyes close as he leans his head back into the hand Dean still has in his hair, all of his walls dropped.

Until, that is, the support behind his head suddenly drops away. Castiel flails, head jerking back upright in surprise. Dean just smirks at him, eyes back to green, and then eases off of his softening cock and backs away.

“Knew you’d be a hell of a lay, Cas,” the demon says wistfully. He turns around and bends down to retrieve his jeans, giving the hunter a clear view of his ass. It shouldn’t still be as enticing as it is. “God, the things we could do if we had a _bed_ …”

Castiel stares at him while he redresses, eyes wide and uncomprehending. “Are you—what? _Untie me_ , Dean.” He growls the words, tries to make them as imperious and commanding as he can—which doesn’t help when his voice still shakes from the effects of his orgasm, and his pants are pulled down to mid-thigh. Still, he’s a _hunter_. Any monster in their right mind should be scared of him.

Dean, though, just chuckles. He fastens the button on the front of his jeans, then strolls back toward Castiel, but only pecks a soft kiss to his lips before dancing back away. He drops the knife just beside Castiel’s bound feet, winks, then turns on his heel and walks away, tossing over his shoulder, “Until next time, angel-face.”

“Don’t you fucking—”

The heavy steel door clangs shut behind Dean, and Castiel is alone, having once again been outsmarted by the captivating demon.

Damn it.

If Dean thinks he can get away that easily, he has another thing coming. Castiel will track him to the ends of the earth, will do whatever it takes to get his hands on the demon, come hell or high water.

He curses under his breath, struggles against the biting rope, then stretches out one boot to try and knock the knife closer to himself.

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
